Latex I Love You's
by shootingstella
Summary: She needed him. And if there was one thing he needed more than his suit, it was her.


It seems that the further we get away from the season finale, the happier I am that Rubberman turned out to be Tate.

It's just so... sooooo perfect and emotional.

ugh.

This story was inspired by a picture;

http:/28(dot)media(dot)tumblr(dot)com/tumblr_m2tq9dSXhC1r9mwj6o1_500(dot)jpg

(It's flawless. I think it was from the hints package released during the show.)

And it made me realize that Tate dragged her to the bathtub, but Rubberman carried her out.

Then I sobbed for legit ten minutes, pulled myself together, made some tea and wrote this fic. lol

Read on.

* * *

He lifted himself, soaking wet out of the bathtub. Her heart had stopped before the water pressure had a chance to drop.

He cranked the shower off and when he saw the way her lifeless body slumped into the side of the tub, he turned away just in time to wretch into the sink.  
Nothing came up of course. He wasn't blood and bile like other teenage boys, he was dust and darkness, so he dry heaved until Moira walked in and told him to stop being dramatic.

He put his fist through the mirror but she didn't flinch.

She turned to walk away, reminding him as she left that he better make up his mind before the house made it up for him.  
His eyes squeezed shut at her apathy and he decided that he was disgusted with her.  
Not half as disgusted as he was with himself.

He looked at himself in the mirror. Here he was again; weak and fucking pathetic. He had fallen far since his days of cool black coats and sawed off shot guns.  
To be honest, there had only been a handful of moment in his afterlife when he had felt as strong and in control as he had that day.

But when he was granted the strength and reprieve from the disappointed voices in his head, there was nothing he couldn't do.  
That was what he needed now. A few moments of silence to find his priorities; and then hopefully find his balls located someplace nearby.

He stripped off his sweater; soaked through and weighing almost as much as his jeans, which fell to the floor with a slosh and a clunk of his belt buckle. He turned away from Violet's vacant but still slightly open eyes as he lost the boxers and his undershirt.

* * *

He was standing in the basement now, naked and shivering from the chill of water on his skin.

"You certainly know how to make an entrance," Hayden's cat house voice came from behind him as her hand reached down to palm his ass.  
She was new, but he fucking hated her already. She acted like her presence here was something everyone should be fucking grateful for; she wore death like he wore black latex.  
His arm was reaching into the cavern behind the bricks and the second he felt the slick material under his fingers he told her to fuck off, already with a steady voice.  
She followed orders and he was left alone in his corner of the basement to pull the suit over his clammy skin.

His transformation wasn't romantic.

It wasn't like Clark Kent whirling into a telephone booth and emerging as a hero. It was more along the lines of a desperate man plunging deep into shiny jet black denial as he finally let himself do the things that his own stomach was too weak to handle.

In a few minutes, his body was enveloped in darkness; he slicked his wet hair back and added the mask.  
Now that he had his armor, he had no need to flit about the house like a ghost or a shadow. What did he have to be afraid of? He was the only thing in the house worth fearing.

* * *

He reached the second story bathroom in no time and looked down at the poor crumpled girl in the tub. Pretty, even in death.

He perched himself on the rim of the porcelain bathtub and appraised the situation. He ran through every resident of the murder house in his mind and quickly ranked them based on how they would be affected by this and whether or not he actually gave a fuck.

Nora. He always started with Nora. She wouldn't care; she can barely keep up with who's dead and who's alive most days.  
Vivien? He didn't give a shit about her, but she would care the most probably; be the most dramatic, and that wouldn't be good for the baby. Stress like this could cost him her pregnancy and that comes back around to Nora. Vivien couldn't know.  
Ben was useless.  
Moira would keep his secret no matter what he decided to do.  
Hayden would probably want to stir shit up but he wasn't against taping Beau's red ball inside her mouth for a few days to shut her up.  
That only left a handful of nobodies and Violet.  
Violet.

What would she do?  
Would she know?  
Did she do this on purpose? Or was she just too little to handle an adult sized dosage of pills.

He felt his fingers reach up, instinctively to tug on his curls but the squeak of rubber jarred him back into the proper state of mind.

No!

He could feel the panic creeping through the seams of his second skin and it made him sick. Everything was supposed to be easy when he was in the suit. Everything was supposed to be simple.

But ever since Violet got here, nothing was simple.

It's not even like this was the first time he had let himself get mixed up. The past weeks had been a mess. He was running around in the suit, being a god damn flirt; scaring her in the basement and defending her from assholes on Halloween.

He was a mess, but he could worry about that later.

* * *

Her wet skin stuck and squeaked against the rubber as he hoisted her up out of the tub.

He was stronger in every respect like this; emotionally and physically, but his knees still buckled under soaking wet dead weight.

He carried her down the hallway to the staircase. When he reached the bottom, Maria was waiting for them, blocking their path.

"Look what he did to me," she muttered.

"Really Maria? Does now look like the time?"

She looked taken aback by his words and quickly disappeared into thin air, leaving behind the coppery smell of her always open wounds.

If he was thinking clearly, he would have realized that he just fucking spoke!

Which was the kind of thing he avoided doing like the plague.

The voice belonged to Tate Langdon; not the monster.

But instead, he was too distracted, because all he could see in his mind, as he walked blindly to the basement, was twenty years from now, Violet's confused and tortured spirit.

"Look what I did to myself?"

He could almost hear it; and it sounded like a sledgehammer to that wall between his two identities.

The inside of his mask was wet, he didn't want to admit why, but it was becoming itchy and uncomfortable.

He hated everything. He was quiet rage, suppressed only by his dutiful attention to the task at hand.

Where was he going to put her?

There was really only one place that came to mind.

* * *

He carried her to the deepest corner of the basement, away from anyone and anything, living or dead.

He stood over her for a few minutes, struggling to maintain his composure. There was no denying the tears now. He peeled the mask off and clenched it in his hand. He threw it into the darkness, but its light form only fluttered to the ground and it was horribly unsatisfying.

He kicked a rock by his feet, hoping to release some more of his anger, but it failed again.

This was all because of her!

She did this too him! She made him weak and vulnerable, even when he was like this, in his strongest skin.  
She wreaked havoc with his confidence, his capability and it made him want to hate her; ditch her in favor of self-preservation.

But he couldn't. He could never hate her. Never leave her.

Never let anything or anyone hurt her.

Now was not the time for his impetuous child of a super ego to turn on her; not when she needed him the most.

He could be selfless.  
Maybe.

Maybe she hadn't been sucking all of his strength just to drain him of it. Maybe she had just been adjusting him; changing him even.

She had changed him.

The latex spunk he so depended on may have been failing him now, but it was making appearances elsewhere.

Hadn't he been able to do things, unspeakable things, all in the name of Violet, dressed in nothing more threatening than a striped sweater?

He stood over her for a few minutes, struggling to maintain his composure.

He knew that he should find the mask that he had foolishly threw away and leave, but he forgot about it; he was too busy climbing back towards Violet.

It wasn't her anymore, but he swore his devotion to her anyway.

He could make things okay for her. He knew how, and now it was only a matter of his own capability.

He would have to be strong, without the suit.

For anybody else, it would have been out of the question; but for her, he could do it.

He kissed her cheek, her hair, her nose, and her closed eyes. But she was cold.

He felt like she was a million miles away, but in reality, she was just on the other side of the basement.

He needed to go to her. He needed to… 'Give up the ghost' would be a terribly ironic way of putting it.

* * *

When he found her, she was still unconscious, lying on the floor next to Charles's work table.

When he scooped her up, she clung to him, no longer dead weight and god if his heart didn't leap into his throat. He looked down at her; lingering for a minute to stare at her peaceful features.

He hadn't been aware of a crowd, but the sound of Chad scoffing behind him got his attention.

They were blocking his path to the stairway, but he had no qualms about pushing past them.

He carried her back upstairs to her bedroom and laid her down on her bed.

"I'll be right back," he whispered and she rolled onto her side.

* * *

He was back in the basement in a flash. He peeled the rubber off slower than usual, and when it was gone he could still feel its memory clinging to his skin.

The lasting impression it left him with might give him the edge he needed, but as he pulled his jeans on, he was horrified to find that he was going to have to take the bad with the good.

The memories of the things had done where not fading around the edges like the always did. He remembered everything and he was beyond the point of denial now.

Instead of cowering into the corner like he almost expected himself to do, he fully committed to his plan. If he could make this better for her, it wouldn't only be her second chance; it could be his redemption.

He put on a dry shirt and shook the rest of the water out of his hair and appeared outside the door to her room.

He was about to push open the door, when something occurred to him.

He hadn't actually seen her since Halloween.

There had been a few brief moments of consciousness in the tub, but she had been so scared, so confused.

No matter what sort of plan he had for later, he knew what he needed to do first. He needed to get back to her.

The ghost of the latex on his skin was evaporating; he panicked at the thought of having to do this without his secret weapon.

She needed him, whether she knew it or not; and he had to pull it together.

He toed open her door, slowly; and saw her lying in bed reading a book. The book looked familiar and he tried to smile.

Her eyes were red and glassy, but there was recognition in them.

She needed him; and he knew there was only one thing he needed more than his shiny suit.

Her.

He took step closer to the bed. "I like birds too."


End file.
